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The Voices in the Darkness
There is a nearly inaudible voice that converses with me in the late hours of the night. I remain awake, as this voice recites poetic rhetoric as my visage’s stoic countenance is shattered with a pusillanimous grin that spreads over my slightly incarnadine-shaded lips. The erudition it demonstrated was unmatched, and its sedated disposition dispensed a calming feel to me... '' Throughout the course of the night, the voice speaks to me. The voice is more precious to me than any artifact of value on this planet, and I could hearken to it for a perennial amount of time. At times, the voice is crestfallen and lachrymose, often lamenting the injustices and folly of this plane of existence. I could relate and sympathize with the voice, for I too, have brooded over such matters. The voice is frail, demure, and conciliating, often the only thing that alleviates my growing angers and woes. The voice says that I often do the same for it, mitigating its sorrows and lifting its low spirits. When the dawn comes and the sun rises, the voice fades away, and my dolorous nature returns. I often go about my duties throughout the day, but with the voice’s heart-warming and doting words echoing in the corners of my mind. With each passing hour, I feel myself missing the voice and its ethereal essence, and my heart yearns for it. As I wait for when the voice and I may converse, I often turn towards the sea, the liquescent cerulean and turquoise giver of life, and gaze at the firmament and waters. I ventured over to the vast body of water that was adjacent to my home and marched onto the boardwalk. I peered into the distance, and eyed the placid, limpid, serene waters as the sun’s rays glittered the surface of the waters, making it resemble a myriad of buoyant diamonds. The sea’s enigmatic nature was alluring and abstruse. Humans have attempted to unravel its recondite secrets. A multitudinous amount of organisms resided within the tenebrous depths, ranging from cetaceans, to cephalopods, to various ichthyic life forms. The area from which I currently resided was notorious for its history of seafarers questing for new lands for a myriad of purposes. Throngs of tourists would slouch over the railings, observing whales as they breached and would flail their tails in the air. More or less, the bevy of sightseers would often whip out their smartphones and attempt to photograph the colossal cetaceans in action, but the vast majority of their pictures would simply capture parts of their flukes, or if they were fortunate enough, their dorsal ridges. Local nautical and bucolic folk ambled on the archaic quay, often uttering their workplace nomenclature. One mariner couldn’t help but notice my ruminative, pensive expression. Being an amiable gentleman, he asked, “’Ey, how you doin’ eh? Lovely view, ain’t it? The watah’s seem to be ca’hm, no signs of hurricanes or somethin’”. I turned my head only half-way, and I quietly uttered, “Oh, yes. It’s quite lovely. I was just admiring the view”. “Mm-hmm. It’s that time of the ye’ah whe’eh the tourists come all ‘round for some of ow-wah famous seafood soups an’ all. I cal’clate that we’eh gonna be getting a lotta’ payin’ customahs’. Can’t say that I think this ye’ah’s gonna be any different from the ye’ah’s befo-wah”. I nodded my head and continue to reflect and admire the heavens and the pelagic view, the sublime voice still in my mind. The seafaring man gave me his valediction and went on his way. And with that, I marched off the quay, and continued to the edifice of sorrow I labeled my home. I sauntered through the plethora of gabled, Georgian-architected houses and copses of conifer trees that dotted the neighborhoods. Out of boredom, I had begun to form figurines on the Cyclopean masonry of the path I strode on, as if they were clouds. Subsequently, I began fantasizing of that beloved voice, reminiscing on how it made me laugh and filled my heart and soul with serenity. Although non-loquacious, my friend’s voice speaks to me like no other. It became quite indisputable that they were quite dear to me. For hours, I would recall quotes that the voice had spoken, or perhaps titter silently at the frivolous nonversations we’d exchange. I would frequently sigh in a pacific fashion as I envisioned my next tête-à-tête with the voice. At long last, I reached my paneled door, and turned the knob. I scampered up my steps, and into my chamber, and the vocal point from which I conversed with my cherished friend appeared before me… ''When the melee of the day becomes docile and the firmament’s gloamy aura fades into the dazzling surfeit of stars and supernal spheres, I sit upright, as I commune with the soft, inaudible voice that keeps me restive in the dead hours of the night. The voice is sapient and sagacious, empathetic and erudite. This voice, my friend, meant so much to me. The ho-hum of the day erupts callously, already dreading the day as my hazel eyes stare at the ceiling. And already, the voice is on my mind. As I climb off of mattress and toss aside my sheets, my heart yearns to hear the sagacious voice, my friend. I strode towards the edifice that is labeled Academia by the superiors, and I cringed as I witnessed the other students insouciantly suck face in the middle of the halls. Shaking my head in vexation, I continued on my way clutching my textbooks. During the lecture, I would sit myself down and centralize my focus on our educator’s discoursing. Often, as I penned the information supplied to us, my train of thought would become discursive, and I would think of that voice…my friend. Occasionally, when I sat alone, I would glance out the window, peering at the monumental skylines before me. The burning sun shining fiercely down on the urban jungle I called “home”. And once again, my thoughts would return to the voice, missing my friend, a dark void in my heart. When the day of labor had ended, I would pack up my things and slowly venture out into the sunlight, the air sultry, muggy, and sweltering. Regardless of the day’s stifling temperature, I pulled up my hood and I wordlessly perambulated my way back home. I placed my hands within my hooded sweatshirt’s front pockets, and I marched slowly, my eyes locked on the floor, lost in my confidential thoughts. Noticing my cowl, a gentleman dressed in a cowboy-esque wardrobe noticed me. “’Owdy there, missy. Y’all are wearin’ a hood on this hot day?” The westernized questioned, removing the hat from his head, leisurely fanning himself with it. Not having the tenacity to confabulate with this stranger, I merely uttered, “Yeah. I guess I don’t mind it.” I bashfully adjusted it a bit more, making sure it obscured my face. The man simply smiled a bit, and responded, “Well, ma’am, to each their own, I reckon’. Just hope y’all don’t get too hot out here, today’s a scorcher. Ya’ll have a good day now, y’hear?” “I will”. He tipped his fat in an amiable farewell, and I bid him adieu, and trekked my way home, with the sun’s brutal heat bearing down on me. When I finally got home, I proceeded to peruse my textbooks and do my daily task of homework assignments. But of course, there was one thing on my mind after the work was done; my beloved friend. As I waited for their arrival, I quietly walked over towards my bedroom window, and my hazel eyes glanced up towards my favorite natural object in the sky; the moon. My empyrean fetish was always a sight to behold, so eternal and full of wonder. It resembled a glittering pearl in the sky, with the caricature of a human’s visage imprinted on it. The superfluity of stars that dotted the nightly welkin left me speechless as I viewed its celestial grandeur. Often, I contemplated on the mysteries that the milky way and the universe. On several occasions, I’ve realized that we humans owe it to the stars for our very existence. Every digit, every palm , every breath we take, is composed of stardust. As my eyes remained anchored on the plethora of luminous, extra solar spherules my mind cogitated on whether or not some sort of rarefied, sentient beings dwelled among them. If so, who were they? What are they like? Did they retain a squamous-like epidermis with dolichocephalic skulls and extended fingers with suction-cups on the tips? Or perhaps were they octopoid-like beings with a multitude of eyes attached to writhing ommatophores. Did they retain a vast, abstruse knowledge of the universe that us humans only dreamed of possessing? Whatever the reason, I knew that we humans often gloated on knowing so much about our universe, but we have hardly scratched the surface, and were nowhere near reaching it. I took one last gander at the pulchritudinous ornament that hovered in the sky, the moon, and I walked towards the vocal point from which I could converse with my dear friend, the voice which I loved very much. I gently sat in front of the point, and it appeared before me… “Hi.” “Hello.” “I missed you…” “I missed you too…”